


Foreigners God

by leighlillies



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Implied Smut, Kissing, M/M, a grand deal of underage drinking, also referenced smoking, and mike, but they're still wonderful boys, i dunno, it's a world of possibilities boys and girls, just with more keg stands, no clowns, not even the slightest bit of clowns, possible bill/eddie, richie and stan are in love, richie's a frat boy, slow burn kinda, so's bill, stan doesnt deserve this, the entire gang may or may not show up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 15:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13813761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leighlillies/pseuds/leighlillies
Summary: Stanley Uris meets a certain dark haired boy at a party and falls in love. And then does so again the next night and the next night and so on.Or: It may not be Groundhog day, but Stanley Uris has lived the same day 243 times with no sign of stopping.





	Foreigners God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan meets a boy. Twice.

Stan woke up at 7:46 am to the screech of his cellphone, warning him that in fourteen short minutes, he would be subjected to the hell that was anthropology. He groaned loudly, his lack of roommate allowing him to do as he pleased -He was supposed to have one, but the kid never showed up and it was October, so it seemed Stan got a single- and kicked the comforter off him. 

Stan was a pajama man. He found that sleeping in any apparel other than full dress, was appalling and would not be tolerated. He currently donned a pair of flannel pants and a plain white tee, the epitome of sleepwear. 

His bare feet hit the shitty dorm room tile, sending a chill up his calves and an involuntary shudder through his shoulders. Another groan escaped him. Pajama man he was, but not a morning man it seemed. He rued the garish sun, daring it to return to the inky blackness from which it had erupted. It refused. He shuffled over to his dresser, tugging out a pair of khaki's, another thing Stan enjoyed. Once his pajamas were safely replaced with his everyday pants, he moved on to shirts, then shoes, then hair. Everything was done quickly and precisely, zip, snap, brush.

Seven minutes later, his navy backpack was slung over his shoulders and he was in the elevator, going down to the lobby, so he could start walking towards his eight am.

 

It was wet outside, the post-rain atmosphere shrouded his being. There were minuscule puddles along the brick path, scattering the grassy areas. His steps hit the ground with a light 'sploosh', soaking the bottom of his sneakers. It was less than ideal, but he could suffer through it. He could clean them when he got home and all would be good. That was the mindset that got him through freshman year -and sophomore year, and it seemed that his junior year would also be endured with it's help. Baby steps- surviving him with a sole complete and utter mental break, defeating high school by a neat eight.

His anthropology classroom was a quick four minutes from his dorm and he was in his seat by 7:57. By 7:59 his supplies were spread neatly on his desk, writing utensils to the left, notebook to the right. At 8:12 his teacher walked in, tossed his bag on his desk and flew into a rant about cyborgs. An hour and twenty minutes later, he was packing up his things, head spinning over why he hadn't dropped this class the first week.

He left the class the same way he'd entered it, backpack on his shoulders and phone tucked safely in his pocket. Fifteen steps out of the building, said phone buzzed and Stan was forced to fish it out. The culprit was Bill Denbrough, Stan's childhood best friend. Bill was, to summarize, tall, ginger and dangerously altruistic. At the moment he was pestering Stan to bring him coffee. Stan stared at the words for a moment, before internally shrugging and walking, not in the direction of his dorm, but to Starbucks.

He waited in the line for fifteen minutes, ordered a caramel iced coffee, a mocha latte, and a chai tea. He then waited near the counter for seventeen minutes, asked politely for a drink carrier and exited the cafe.

Three minutes later he was at Bill's dorm, a convenient distance from the coffee shop. He rode up the elevator, a mirror image of that morning, save for the half mile location change. The bell dinged neatly, he exited and walked down the hall to room 819.

 

Bill had a roommate named Eddie. Eddie was half an inch taller than Stan -they measured- but had at least another foot of rage. While Bill didn't spend a great deal of time at the frat house, -another thing about Bill, he'd rushed a fraternity called Kappa Epsilon Gamma freshman year and was actually pretty invested in it. He pledged to make his dad proud, and blossomed due to his naturally social disposition- he did spend a deal, so Stan and Eddie spent most of that deal together. Seeing as Stan was left roommate-less.

Still, this didn't directly lead to Eddie and Stan hanging out. No, that was more due to Stan randomly showing up at Bill's place -texting, while convenient, was taxing- and finding the room with only one inhabitant. The first time, there had been a long pause, as Stan stared at this stranger in his friend's room and Eddie stared at the stranger in his own room. A very long pause, followed by Eddie, "Wrong room, kid."

"I'm looking for Bill." Stan forced out.

Another pause, "Whatever, you can wait here if ya want." Eddie had a strong New England accent, he'd spent a grand deal of his childhood in NYC, which transformed his speech into a mess of na'mean's, whassa's, and fuggetaboudit's. It had toned down considerably over the last couple years, but his 'you's' were still 'ya's' and instead of the generally agreed upon 'you guys' he instead chose 'you'se'.

The second time Eddie glanced up briefly, "Ya can wait if ya want."

The third, "Wanna watch Friends?" And that's pretty much how it went. Bill arriving an hour or two later to Stan and Eddie on Eddie's bed, eyes glazing over as they watched his laptop.

 

Now, Stan entered the room with ease -they never locked it- and plopped down on Bill's bed, "Hey, losers." He said, passing out drinks. Bill groggily sat up, dropping his phone on the bedside table. He appraised Stan, grabbing his drink with one hand and yanking a pillow out from under the covers with another. In one swift motion he both sipped his iced coffee and threw the pillow at a high velocity towards a sleeping Eddie. 

It landed with a heavy whamp, and was shortly followed by a, "What the fucking fuck?" Eddie sat up rigidly, brown hair disheveled and eyes narrowed into slits. He glared at Bill, noticed Stan, noticed coffee, and thrust his empty hand out. Stan leaned forward to replace this space with mocha. Eddie nodded, expression softening just slightly, ""mornin' Stan. Go fuck yourself, Bill."

"You don't even know if it was me who threw it!" Bill scoffed.

"I am one hundred percent certain that it was you, ya soulless motherfucker."

Bill rolled his eyes, stretching his arms, "Oh funny, that's how I described you the other day." 

"As long as we're on the same page, Billy."

Bill gave Stan a look, as if to say 'get a load of this guy'. They all sat in an amicable silence, sipping their drinks and staring blankly at the wall until Bill spoke up, "You guys are coming tonight, yeah?"

"To what?" Stan asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

"KEG's pre-pre-halloween party."

"You do realize how douche-y that sounds, don't you?" Stan asked. To their left, Eddie snorted.

Bill rolled his eyes again, "You're coming?"

Stan sighed, "I always do."

Bill looked at Eddie, who cracked his first smile of the morning, "Of course I'm in, Billy. Frat parties are crawling with cute closeted boys with eyes for none other than your's truly." He pointed at himself obnoxiously.

Bill laughed, "Don't make me revoke my invitation." He glanced at his phone, suddenly adrenalized he stood up, "Fuck, I got a class. I'll see you guys later? Starts at nine?" He grabbed his bag, one hand on the door as he waited for their response.

"Nine-thirty sharp." Stan told him.

"Awesome!" The door clapped shut.

Queue brief pause, "New Girl?" Eddie asked. Stan moved over to his bed.

 

Stan had three basic rules for frat parties, in no specific order, they were:

1) If possible, avoid alcohol. He had to specify alcohol instead of beer or vodka or whatever else, due to Kappa Epsilon Gamma sating their liquor needs with only a) a keg that had a line for keg stands that wrapped the house twice and b) a mysterious punch bowl of blue liquid that tasted like liquefied gummy worms and got it's drinker absolutely wasted after half a solo cup. It's not that Stan didn't like drinking, no quite the opposite, frat parties just had shit liquor and Stan had higher standards.

2) Don't leave Eddie. Bill always cut to the front of the keg stand line -as he could, being the doted little brother of the entire fraternity-, got thoroughly wasted, and stumbled around with somebody until he felt it a quality time to pass out on the ratty old couch. It was down to a routine and Stan really couldn't understand why he and Eddie had to come if Bill was going to keep performing it. Anyway, don't leave Eddie, who didn't quite know how to hold his liquor, in addition to being an irritatingly provocative drunk. Stan was on babysitting duty, to simplify.

3) Keep exchanges with the natives to a minimum. The last thing he wanted to do was chat with Chad about his summers in the Bahamas and his winters in Germany. He stuck to the walls and watched Eddie run around, -fetching him if necessary- with a drink in his hand. It was good people watching. Stan liked people watching. As a kid he'd been obsessed with bird watching, finding each and every species fascinating. Now, he saw the two as very similar.

On the night of October 3rd, Stan broke every single one of these rules.

 

"It's purple this time." Eddie said, his voice walking the tightrope between wary and adrenalized. He handed Stan a cup, a lone ice cube hit the plastic walls. It was true, the punch, that had remained a solid blue for a year and a half now, was a lovely magenta. He would have thought it to be quite pretty if he weren't so repulsed.

"You're gonna drink this?" Stan asked.

Eddie snorted, "No, you're gonna drink it, and if you don't keel over on the spot, I'm gonna drink it." He used his own cup to push Stan's towards him. Purple liquid sloshed over onto his pale hand. He regarded the drips with unbridled horror and without much thought, wiped it off on the -admittedly already stained- wall. 

Stan laughed, "Like hell I am."

They stood just outside the living room, leaning on the wall of the study. The house was dark, ill-ly lit with dime-a-dozen fairy lights. It gave it almost a futuristic aura, as if they were on a spaceship twenty thousand light years from now. Earth was gone, obliterated by the cruel sun. Humans had fled to the cavernous expanse that was space. The spacecrafts power was quickly dwindling, after have been air born for going on four centuries now. Where would they go? Mars was just barely habitable, the moon vanished with their dying planet, their only sustenance was liquid purple rations.

It was eerie, to summarize. The crowd somehow making it feel even more isolated, and of course it was crowded. Packed wall to wall to wall to wall. Too many people, Stan thought briefly, Fire hazard. Though there were far worse fates than that it seemed. His fiery demise would have been a blessing compared to the look Eddie was giving him now, the juvenile idea of 'I triple dog dare you' flickered to life. Brown eyes were weaving their way into his head, pushing, shoving, ruffling around places they didn't belong. Stan sighed and took a sip.

It still tasted like gummy bears.

 

Eddie was gone. Maybe he'd been gone for a long time. Stan didn't know anything but that, in this moment, Eddie was gone. He leaned against the wall, marveling at the way the floor swayed. His hands ran over the rough fabric of his jeans hypnotically. His mouth was dry, as if the purple potion had sucked all of the liquid from his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought about getting some water, but made no move to get any.

"What're you doin' over here? All by your lonesome?" Came a voice from his right. Stan rolled his head around to see a ivy sweater-ed chest. Looking up, this chest was decorated with a head of curly black hair and two megalithic cerulean eyes behind a pair of coke bottle glasses.

"Drinking." Stan replied easily.

Glasses laughed, as he spoke his words had the same messy slur as Stan's, "Kinda hard to do that without a cup."

Stan glanced down at his empty hands, "Oh. Fuck. Yeah."

The boy smiled at him, "Y'know, if you're tired of Kappa juice, I've got some wine coolers in my room." He had nice teeth, Stan thought. He'd also managed to fill Stan in on a vital information on the identity of the brightly colored booze. So far, he seemed alright.

"You live here?" Stan raised an eyebrow, glancing around the room apprehensively.

"Most of the time," He straightened up, separating himself from the wall, "Wine coolers?" He cocked his head towards the stairs, still smiling.

Now, the idea of going up to a random boy's room - a random Frat boy's room no less- was appalling, but the gummy bear taste had become abhorrent to him. It's syrupy sweetness was curdling in a way he didn't think previously possible. This new development offered more booze. Sober Stan would have vehemently disregarded this, but this was not Sober Stan, this was Drunk Stan, and Drunk Stan thought the idea was lovely, "I'd love to."

 

His room was tiny, perhaps six by eight, dwarfed by a twin bed. He had Superman sheets and a plain white comforter. The wall across from the bed showed not an inch of it's cream paint, instead covered floor to ceiling in photos and posters. Half of the aforementioned photos featured himself and an array of random guys and the other half featured one of the most beautiful girls Stan had ever seen. She had a hip length mane of red hair and glittering green eyes. She and the boy shared the same pale complexion, constellation of freckles, and knockout body.

"That's Bev," The boy said, after noticing Stan staring intently at a photo of them by a lake, "She's my best friend." He stared at the photo for a second before moving to his dresser, yanking a six pack of hard lemonade from the bottom drawer. He reached over to his dresser, shuffling around the top drawer until he found a Stuart Little bottle opener. He popped the top off two glasses and handed one to Stan, "We met in the fifth grade and I discovered what love was. Then in seventh grade I discovered what misplaced infatuation was." He laughed, "She's great."

Stan giggled, "Uh, my best friend also happens to be tall and ginger and great." He paused briefly, taking the bottle, "He's actually the reason why I'm here, uh, Bill Denbrough."

"Oh shit! Big Bill? He's fuckin' great." The boy laughed, taking a long sip of his drink. He stared at Stan for a long time, long enough for it to get uncomfortable, "You're fuckin' gorgeous."

Stan smiled, blood rushing to his cheeks, "You're drunk."

"So are you, doesn't make you any less pretty though."

"Aww, you sure know how to make a boy blush." Stan said, his voice breathy.

The boy smiled, eyes crinkling under his glasses, "You haven't seen anything yet."

Now, it must be stressed how incredibly out of character this next comment was, Stanley Uris did not do this, Drunk Stan, however, seemed to be a whole different beast, "Show me."

Slender fingers ran over Stan's jaw, a free hand rubbing circles on his thigh, "Gladly." And then their lips were together. Stan was warm, so warm. There was a buzz and it would be all too easy to blame it on the alcohol, but Stan chose not to. He pressed his hands up to the boys ribcage, drumming out a slow beat with his fingers.

Suddenly his lips weren't so warm anymore, his neck was. Then his shirt was gone and hands were running up and down his chest. It didn't occur to Stan until now, just how much taller this boy was than him. His hands were big, dwarfing his torso. Stan loved it. He laid back and on October third, Stanley Uris let himself get torn apart.

 

Stan woke up at 7:46 am, to the screech of his cellphone, warning him that in fourteen short minutes, he would be subjected to the hell that was anthropology. He groaned loudly, his lack of roommate allowing him to do as he pleased -He was supposed to have one, but the kid never showed up and it was October, so it seemed Stan got a single- and kicked the comforter off him.

Stan was a pajama man. He found that sleeping in any apparel other than full dress, was appalling and would not be tolerated. He currently donned a pair of flannel pants and a plain white tee, the epitome of sleepwear.

His bare feet hit the shitty dorm room tile, sending a chill up his calves and an involuntary shudder through his shoulders. Another groan escaped him. He shuffled over to his dresser, tugging out a pair of khaki's, another thing Stan enjoyed. Once his pajamas were safely replaced with his everyday pants, he moved on to shirts, then shoes, then hair. Everything was done quickly and precisely, zip, snap, brush.

Seven minutes later, his backpack was slung over his shoulders and he was in the elevator, going down to the lobby, so he could start walking towards his eight am.

 

It was wet outside, the post-rain atmosphere shrouded his being. There were minuscule puddles along the brick path, scattering the grassy areas. His steps hit the ground with a light 'sploosh', soaking the bottom of his sneakers. It was less than ideal, but he could suffer through it. He could clean them when he got home and all would be good. That was the mindset that got him through freshman year -and sophomore year, and it seemed that his junior year would also be endured with it's help. Baby steps- surviving him with a sole complete and utter mental break, defeating high school by a neat eight.

His anthropology classroom was a quick four minutes from his dorm and he was in his seat by 7:57. By 7:59 his supplies were spread neatly on his desk, writing utensils to the left, notebook to the right. At 8:12 his teacher walked in, tossed his bag on his desk and flew into a rant about cyborgs. Stan stared at him, the professors words going straight over his head. This was wrong. This was all very, very wrong. 

He'd been in this class before. He'd heard the cyborg rant before. He'd walked through the after rain. He'd reminded himself to clean his shoes. He'd woken up his bed and no. Stan was hit with a sudden realization. He shouldn't have even woken up in his bed. He should have woken up nude, in superman sheets, not fully clothed in his own plain white ones.

Stan believed in rational thinking. No ghosts, no ghouls, no spirits. Bigfoot was a hoax. Fairies were bullshit. No lamp would ever hold a genie. So, by the time his class had ended, he was completely certain that he'd had a frighteningly accurate dream. That was until he was walking out and his phone buzzed.

A certain Bill Denbrough had texted him, 'Pls bring coffee' and Stan stopped in his tracks. He scrolled through that past ten days of their texts. Then the past ten days of everyone else's texts. This was the first time such a message was documented. Weird dream, weird dream, weird dream, He told himself, a mantra of sorts, and headed in the direction of Starbucks.

He waited in the line for fifteen minutes, ordered a caramel iced coffee, a mocha latte, and a chai tea. He then waited near the counter for seventeen minutes, asked politely for a drink character and exited the cafe, as thoroughly freaked out as he was when he entered it.

Three minutes later he was at Bill's dorm, a convenient distance from the coffee shop, as it had been yesterday. And every other day. He rode up the elevator, a mirror image of that morning and the previous morning. The bell dinged neatly, he exited and walked down the hall to room 819.

This time, Stan entered the room cautiously, scanning in the entire room before sitting down on Bill's bed, "...Hey?" Bill and Eddie were both up, Bill was scrolling through his phone, and Eddie was squirreled away in the covers, sluggishly typing something out on his computer. This is different, thank God.

"Hey, Stanny." Bill grinned, "It's about time you got here." Stan gave him an awkward smile and handed him his drink. Eddie thrust his empty hand out. Stan leaned forward to replace this space with mocha. Eddie nodded, expression softening just slightly, ""mornin' Stan. Go fuck yourself, Bill."

"What was that for?" Bill scoffed.

"I feel like you deserved it."

Bill rolled his eyes, stretching his arms, "You're an asshole."

"I'll let you have that one."

Bill gave Stan a look, as if to say 'get a load of this guy'. Stan had never been this thoroughly freaked in his entire life, "Is something... off today?" He asked the boys, brows furrowed.

Bill shook his head, "Nah, not for me." He shrugged, changing subjects breezily, "You guys are coming tonight, yeah?"

"To your lame frat party?" Stan asked warily. Even in a moment of crisis, he wouldn't pass up an opportunity to insult Bill's frat, their name was KEG, for fuck's sake.

"That's the one. You're coming?"

Stan frowned, "Uh, yeah, sure."

Bill looked at Eddie, who cracked his first smile of the morning, "Of course I'm in, Billy. Frat parties are crawling with cute closeted boys with eyes for none other than your's truly." He pointed at himself obnoxiously.

Bill laughed, "Don't make me revoke my invitation." He glanced at his phone, "Fuck, I got a class." He grabbed his bag, one hand on the door, "Are you feeling alright Stan?"

Stan sighed, "Yeah, I'm just tired."

Bill frowned, "Alright, take a nap or something. I told you not to take eight am's. It's the vast expanse of hell packed into an hour and a half." The door clapped shut.

Queue brief pause, "New Girl and chill?" Eddie asked. He had positioned himself in the corner between two walls, a mountain of blankets caccooned around him, his only visable components being his neck up, as well as his knuckles, tapping away on his laptop. He did a lot of that, and Stan was truly curious what he could spend all this time doing online. Truly, he was only on it, only pausing his machine gun fire typing to watch some female centric America comedy show with Stan.

"Eddie, do you ever feel like you've lived something before?" Stan asked softly, voice barely audible in fear of his own question.

Eddie gave him a weird smile, "Uh, yeah, it's that Deja vu thing? You remember stuff that you don't know you remember? Brains are fuckin' weird."

Stan nodded slowly, "Do you think you could like, Deja vu an entire day?"

Eddie shrugged, his eyes on his laptop now, "Maybe, I don't know much about psychology. I bet like, if you have a routine, it'd be possible to feel like you're living the same day over."

"That makes sense." Stan moved over to Eddie's bed, "I have the same schedule every Wednesday for months now. That makes a lot of sense actually, thanks, Eddie." With his friend's assurance, Stan was ready to lock up any idea of supernatural interference in his life and toss away the key. Now, it can be disputed whether this was the Universe's doing, or simply Eddie being an asshole, but the situation was not diffused as quickly and cleanly as Stan had hoped.

Eddie's fingers paused tapping away on his keyboard, he looked at Stan, his thin lips curled into a mocking smile, if it were anyone else, Stan would have been rightly unnerved by this look, but it was Eddie, who lived for the misery of others and Stan really meant that in the best way possible, "You think you've lived this day before?" He was obviously suppressing a smile.

Stan shoved his shoulder playfully, "Not anymore. It was just a little weird this morning. I already knew the lesson and I had this weird ass dream." He shrugged, "It was a little freaky."

Eddie laughed, "Alright, Mr. LogicAndReason, I thought this only happened on Groundhog day. The universe must think you're mighty special." Seeming pleased with himself, he returned to pulling up Netflix on his laptop. Stan didn't indulge him with a response.

 

Stan's faith was shaken slightly when he walked into a mirror image of the party he may or may not have went to last night. The same futuristic glow, oddly colored drinks, and varied array of people enveloped the house. Stan somehow found himself in the exact same place as before, the same wall, perhaps in his past self's footprints. It was unnerving to say the least, but Stanley Uris was a man of science, which didn't allow witchcraft such as this. Neither did the Torah, and Stan was not about to abandon his entire belief system to cater his confusion.

"It's purple this time." Eddie told him, waltzing over to his own spot. He wore the same thing he had before. The same skinny jeans, paired with one of Bill's KEG hoodies. He spent a lot of time in Bill's clothes, come to think of it. Stan rally hadn't before, but now, facing off into the unknown, he paused a moment to consider just how often Eddie wore Bill's shirts. Spoiler alert: a lot. Eddie's hair was purposefully mussed. He held the cup out, "Drink up, Stanny boy."

"I would rather die." Stan told him deadpan, "Actually, if I do, I might."

Eddie scoffed, "Don't be a wimp." He took a tentative sip, before nodding, deeming it acceptable.

Stan took a deep breath, confusion becoming today's permanent mood, "Go easy on that stuff." Whether or not his mind was playing tricks on him, he was certain that the liquid in Eddie's hands was toxic. He could smell the vodka in that cup from here.

Eddie laughed, "Go hard or go home, my boy." And threw the contents of his solo cup down his throat, no doubt to annoy Stan. He was a vengeful little shit. He took a heavy breath following the act and grinned wildly at Stan, "Now, I am going to find some douche canoe to bang me." This was classic Eddie behavior, so Stan nodded and brushed him off, a more pressing dilemma facing him.

This was, to be quaint, the fact that nearly five feet in front of him, in all of his green sweatered glory, was last night's fuck. Stan blinked, "Fuck." Whether this was an identification or a declaration of emotion, he couldn't specify. He watched him as he chatted with a dark skinned boy, the latter who paused every fifteen seconds to scoff or roll his eyes. Green sweater was bouncing on his heels to the beat of the music. He threw his head back to laugh, curls puffing around his face like a storm cloud.

Stan's breath hitched.

 

Thirty minutes and four sips of Kappa juice later, it happened. Again. It was unbelievable enough that this had happened once, whether or not it had been a dream. This was happening and this did not happen to Stan. 

"What're you doin' over here? All by your lonesome?"

Stan's heart started hammering as he slowly turned to his right, and even more slowly up. He continued to stare in abject horror as his lips failed him. Without yesterdays store of liquid courage, he was no better than a cardboard cut out.

Green sweater grinned, "Y'know, if you're tired of Kappa juice, I've got some wine coolers up in my room." Stan became increasingly aware of his personal face being infringed on. He loved it.

"Oh-kay." He whispered.

Green sweater beamed, "Awesome, let's go."

 

If Stan had any doubt that he'd already lived this day before, his entry into the boy's room murdered it. He wasn't creative enough to dream this shit up. He would never admit that though, so he kept his voice silent and his horror in the back of his mind.

The wall was the same, packed with pictures. The superman sheets were still rumpled and the tan walls were still hideous. The boy frowned at Stan's gawking, "Is something wrong?"

Stan shook his head, "No! No, I just...feel like I've been here before." And there went his vow of silence. He shook his head again, trying to rid himself of his thoughts. It didn't work, however, a brand new idea did manage to sneak it's way into the mix, "What's your name?" And it was so weird, that he'd been this intimate with a guy and never learning his name. It was very un-Stan and a brief shiver of self loathing slither across his chest.

"Richard Tozier!" The boy slurred, falling back onto his bed, "But I let all the pretty boys call me Richie." His eyelids fluttered dangerously. Stan wondered in horror if he was this drunk last night. How drunk was Stan last night?

"So," Stan asked, forced to smile. He had to face it, Richie was charming, "What should I call you?"

"Definitely, Richie." Richie grinned up at him, their height difference suddenly flip flopped. He was beautiful, Stan knew that. He'd thought so last night, but now he knew. He knew he was tall and dark and handsome. His legs were long and muscular, dotted with the same of freckles that covered his face and neck and chest. He had a ski-slope nose and glittering blue eyes, magnified by his glasses. Two of his front teeth were slightly crooked, hugging against each other. They showed themselves to Stan as he looked up, "What should I call you?"

"Stanley Uris, but I let all the drunk boys call me Stan." He sat down primly on the edge of Richie's bed.

"Then I should call you Stan." Richie told him. He moved his hand to rest gently on Stan's upper thigh, the thin fabric of his khakis wrinkling in a way that would have usually driven him insane, but not when he felt like this. Last night, or tonight, or whenever, he'd been drunk on shitty alcohol, but now he was drunk on infatuation and this was a grand deal better. Richie's eyes were squished from smiling, "...Stan, I think you should kiss me." He said, an aura of certainty surrounding his voice that made Stan lean in slightly.

He stopped himself, adrenaline was a powerful aphrodisiac, but apparently not powerful enough, "No. No, I think you're kinda drunk and I'm kind of having a...weird day. I can't take advantage of a pretty boy like you. It'd be improper." Stan found flirting a lot easier when he'd already banged the recipient.

Richie fluttered his eyes, long, dark lashes contrasting with his cheeks, "I don't mind."

"Mmm, that makes one of us." He took Richie's hand, rubbing slow circles into his palm, "So, Richie Tozier, what's your favorite color?" His dark eyebrows raised, an amused smile playing on his face.

Richie laughed. He had a lovely laugh. One where he'd throw his head back, his eyes squeezing shut, "What're you doing?"

Stan squeezed his hand slightly, "I wanna get to know you."

He laughed again, "That's weird. I like it."

"Like I said, it's been a weird day." Stan raised an eyebrow, "Favorite color, hit me, Four-eyes." It was an odd approach, Stan will admit, but it was a distraction. He'd alays heard that boys were only focused on one thing: sex. He didn't know about the authenticity of this statement, since he'd always viewed himself and his prim and proper ways as an outlier, but decided not to take a chance. So Stan steered the conversation in the direction of anything anti-coital, not wanting to leave Richie, since he adored his company -adored him, to be frank- but not very much wanting to bang him either.

Queue another laugh, "Green. That's my favorite color. Care to interest me in yours?"

"Red. Who would win in a cage fight: Statue of Liberty or Big Ben?"

Richie answered immediately, allowing not even the slightest pause in their conversation, "Lady Liberty, she's got her torch. It's an admirable weapon."

"I agree. Would you rather have frogs for feet or snakes for hands?"

"Frogs for feet. I'd want them to ribbit every time I took a step."

"Weird, but I somehow agree. Do you like diet soda?"

"Nope, if I'm gonna corrode my insides, I'm gonna do it with full sugar." His eye contact was unwavering. His expression dangerously serious, "My turn. You're fucking incredible."

Stan smiled, "That's not a question."

"But I agree very strongly."

Stan was already blushing, but that sent him over the edge, his cheeks began to hurt from smiling, "You're really something, Richie Tozier." Their noses were hairs away from touching. Stan could feel Richie's warm breath on his lips. It reeked of fruity alcohol. Stan pressed his hands to Richie's chest, pushing him back, "You should go to bed."

"You should go to bed with me."

"Sorry, Pretty Boy, but I'm not sleeping with you tonight." Stan said, "I have a reputation to uphold."

Richie shook his head, dark curls moving with it, "No! No. No, not like that. Just sleep in my bed. You and me. And in the morning, I will take you to breakfast and I will be perfectly sober. I don't get hangovers, y'know. It's my superpower. Anyway, we'll get breakfast and you can fall in love with me." His fingers curled around Stan's.

"You come on strong, Tozier."

"The only way I can." He laid back on the bed, once he was safely down, pulling Stan as well. His head pressed into Richie's chest, the taller boy's fingers rubbing his scalp softly. He smelled like alcohol and teakwood and a little bit of pot. Stan sighed contently, who cares if he'd already lived this night. He was glad to live it again, this was so much better.

 

Stan woke up in an empty bed. He blinked himself awake, looking dully at the popcorn ceiling, "Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know where I'm going with this, but I do know that if I let it continue rotting in my drafts, i'd never finish it and I really do like the idea. Feedback is always appreciated if y'all care to leave it. Have a lovely day :)


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